


Ironing Out the Kinks

by Menolly



Category: House M.D.
Genre: BDSM, M/M, ironing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menolly/pseuds/Menolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson isn't pleased by how wrinkled House's clothes are so he takes matters into his own hands and shows House just how you should iron clothes. </p><p>Contains some mild bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ironing Out the Kinks

He sits helplessly on a chair and watches as Wilson carefully sets up his ironing board. His ankles and wrists are bound to the chair by four of Wilson's silk ties and a smooth leather gag fills his mouth. He can't talk and he can't move, and he's totally at Wilson's mercy. He's naked, of course, and his cock is betraying him and showing just how totally turned on he is by the whole thing.

Wilson is quite aware of all this, the bastard. He's taking his own damn time with the ironing board, carrying on like it's a piece of advanced engineering to put the thing up. His eyes are furrowed in concentration, his gaze intent and his tongue is just poking out of the corner of his mouth in a way that has House wanting to jump him now. He appears to be ignoring his naked, bound victim but House knows better. 

It had all started when House had come out of their bedroom dressed for the hospital Fundraiser in his usual attire, including a t-shirt and a button down shirt. It was true that neither garment had seen an iron lately, if indeed they ever had, but they weren't too bad, just a little crumpled. It was some sort of market day this year, so House didn't see the need to get all done up. Wilson was, of course, immaculately dressed in his version of 'casual doctor dress', the one that he adopted on the weekends. His shirt was ironed to a crispness that House's shirts hadn't obtained since he was a child. His pants had a sharp crease and House was sure that even his handkerchief had been ironed into a compliant square piece of fabric. He had looked at House with his little frowny face, and House had made some sort of remark which might have suggested an alternative location for Wilson's iron.

There had been a brief argument back and forth about the merits of ironing and then Wilson had said something about 'showing House just how good ironing could be' and House's clothes had come off and well, here he was. Naked, bound, helpless and incredibly aroused. The Fundraiser was a distant memory; House didn't think either of them would be getting to it any time soon. As far as House was concerned that was a good thing. 

Wilson _finally_ finishes setting up the board, and then he runs his hand over the smooth cover, gently smoothing it out with a soft touch, his palm barely skimming the surface. The fine hair on House's belly stands up as if feeling that featherlight touch, his cock twitches and House swallows hard behind the gag. 

Next, Wilson turns his attention to the iron, which has been warming up. First he runs his hands up and down the cord, straightening out any kinks it has, his long fingers caressing it lovingly, pulling it through his hands until it lies perfectly long and straight. He does a final pull down the length, his hands firm and steady.

Next he produces a small container and begins to drip water into the iron, drop by drop, each drop falling from a height and being swallowed whole by the waiting iron. Wilson's lips are slightly parted as he watches this process and House longs to feel that water on his skin, and for Wilson to slowly lick it up. He looks down to his chest to see a drop of sweat slowly tracing its way down his body, he glances up at Wilson but he's still doing that thing with the water instead of concentrating on House and the droplet of sweat continues to make its way down his body unimpeded. It finally lands on his cock, as if seeking out the warmest place on his body to come to rest.

When Wilson eventually finishes his meticulous preparations with the iron he looks up at House and smiles, his gaze going down to House's groin and staying there. House thrusts his hips at him as much as he can in this position and makes a sort of muffled sound through the gag, which he hopes Wilson will take as a smart ass comment rather than the outright plea that it is.

Wilson just keeps smiling and when he hears House's moan does that thing with his hand and the back of his neck as if he has no idea what House's problem might be. House growls in frustration behind his gag and slumps back into the chair, waiting for the next stage of Wilson's little show to start.

There's a small pile of the clothes that House had been wearing on the floor where he'd dumped them when Wilson started throwing his weight around. They're at Wilson's feet and he picks up the jeans first, House's well-worn and comfortable jeans, and places them on the ironing board. House closes his eyes in pain, those jeans have never felt an iron on them; Wilson is going to ruin their whole character. His eyes snap open again as he hears a surge of steam. Wilson is just standing there, watching the steam come out of the iron and House feels the urge to tell the idiot to get his stupid hand out of the way. 

Wilson continues to watch the iron for a while, as if entranced by the whole concept. Then, when the iron has passed some sort of Wilsonesque test of hotness, Wilson presses it firmly onto the leg of House's favourite jeans. House thanks that he can almost hear the denim crying.

Wilson is the master of the iron and he carefully places the flat of the iron on one leg of the jeans and slowly, carefully, guides it all the way up, from the ankle to the crotch. As he gets to the crotch he looks up and winks at House and takes his time, running the iron in and out of the creases. When he's finally satisfied he runs his hand along the warm fabric, eyes half closing in a blissful expression, as if he'd found ironing nirvana. He turns the jeans around and then he, of course, does the next leg, again repeating his performance when the steaming iron meets the crotch. 

When the front of the legs of the jeans are perfectly flat he turns them over and does the backs, this time lingering the iron on the seat, where House's ass will go. House squirms in his chair, wanting the feel of that hand on his backside, giving it a light spanking, and warming it up for Wilson's use. Again, Wilson sees his movement and he gives the seat of the jeans a smack with his hand and grins. House makes some more noises through the gag but Wilson just looks at him in puzzlement and confusion. House throws his head back in frustration.

The t-shirt comes next and House yelps his protest at the hot iron on his prized vintage material but Wilson takes no notice. He repeats his careful procedure, using less heat this time, but taking care that every last wrinkle is smoothed out of the material. He lingers on the chest and House feels his nipples harden in response, standing out for Wilson to see. He wants those fingers on them, playing with them, tweaking them. Dammit he just wants Wilson's hands on him, not his fucking clothes!

When the t-shirt is immaculate Wilson hangs it up and picks up the long sleeved shirt. He holds out a sleeve, his fingers entangling with the cuff, as if their two hands were joined. Then ever so slowly he irons each sleeve, turning them over and over until he is satisfied, his tongue poking out of the corner of the mouth again as he concentrates. Then he does the back, quick long strokes, massaging it into shape, then the front with inch perfect precision. Once the shirt is done he picks it up and stares at it and then glances at House, an appreciative expression on his face. Wilson slowly untucks his own shirt and strips it off, hanging it tidily on a hanger. House can see that Wilson is as turned on as himself, his nipples tight and erect, and his white skin prickling with goosebumps.

Then Wilson slips House's shirt on over his bare chest, sighing happily as the warmth of House's newly ironed shirt settles over him. He leaves the front unbuttoned so that the tails hang down, revealing a periodic glimpse of Wilson's naked chest. 

House's blood pounds in his ears, amongst other, more interesting, places, and his heart threatens to explode through his chest as he watches Wilson standing there with his shirt on, he wants nothing more than to leap up and grab the other man, and take him, here and now, but he can't, those damned ties are still holding him firmly against the chair. Well, at least Wilson must be finished now, that's all the clothes done... soon he'll come and untie House and they can move the agenda forward.

No, the bastard is picking up House's discarded socks! Who the fuck irons fucking socks?

Wilson opens each sock and gently blows into it, his mouth puckering into an o shape, his breath sighing out of him and into the fabric of the socks, puffing it out slightly. He places the socks on the board, smoothing out each one with his hands, and House's toes twitch as those clever fingers pull the socks into shape. As Wilson runs the iron over each sock in turn he imagines them massaging his toes, pulling each one slightly apart and separating them, then his hot mouth would descend upon them, taking the toes in and his tongue would swirl around them and.... He flexes his bare feet and curls the toes in frustration as Wilson carefully folds up the freshly ironed socks and puts them to one side. Surely he's finished now?

Boxers? He's going to iron House's boxers? Of course he is. And he’s going to finger them and now he's putting them to his nose and smelling them, inhaling House's scent. Wilson is aroused now too, House can see it, although he's standing there all serene and put together while House sweats and groans in his bonds. Wilson does the boxers, the iron barely touching them while House watches helplessly. Finally the last garment is laid aside and Wilson calmly switches off the iron and puts it to one side, safely.

"There, now your clothes are ironed," he says. 

House stares at him, pleading with his eyes, inarticulate sounds coming out from around the gag, wriggling his hips and doing everything he can to indicate that he needs Wilson, now! Wilson smiles at him and comes over, looking down at House's pleading body. He's still wearing the freshly ironed shirt over his shoulders, exposing his bare chest, and tight nipples, beneath. 

"Oh, did you need something?" Wilson asked, his tone light and playful.

House rolls his eyes and nods his head at his groin, where his cock is still standing out at full attention, glistening with moisture. And at last, at last! Wilson drops to his knees in front of him. He lowers his head and slowly licks his way up the cock, taking his time to appreciate every inch of it. House is both pleased at the attention, and the feel of Wilson’s tongue on his aching cock and desperate for more. Wilson can’t be hurried, he slowly teases the cock, with little licks and sucks here and there, his hand finding House’s balls and gently playing with them. 

Finally, _finally_ , he opens his mouth wide and engulfs House in one movement, taking the straining cock all the way into his mouth and sucking on it. House feels a brief moment of ever increasing need and then his orgasm rips through him as Wilson swallows around his cock, taking everything that House has and looking for more. He holds House in his warm mouth for a moment longer and then slowly lets him slip. As House slumps, exhausted, into the chair Wilson reaches up and takes the sodden gag from his mouth and quickly loosens the ties, massaging House's hands and arms to remove the red lines of restraint from them, in a manner that would be almost guaranteed to have House shooting another load if it wasn't for age and the pills having caught up to him..

House manages to focus on Wilson and stares lazily at his pants, wrinkled now from where he's been kneeling on the floor.

"Your pants are creased," he says.

Wilson looks down at them and brushes them with his hand, frowning in displeasure. Then his face lightens.

"That's okay; you can iron them for me."

End


End file.
